


Come Home

by Hipporiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, My First AO3 Post, Pining, Post Supernatural Season 8, Pre-Supernatural Season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipporiot/pseuds/Hipporiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Listening to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDJr-gijrPc">this</a>, and  <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=on9uLs2TM_Q">this.</a></p>
<p>Written after finale of season 8.<br/>Beta'd by <a href="http://www.beckleys.tumblr.com">Beckleys.</a><br/>Original text from my blog <a href="http://hipporiot.tumblr.com/post/63297055350/i-wish-i-was-the-moon-1-of-2">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. I Wish I Was The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Listening to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDJr-gijrPc), and [this.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=on9uLs2TM_Q)
> 
> Written after finale of season 8.  
> Beta'd by [Beckleys.](http://www.beckleys.tumblr.com)  
> Original text from my blog [here](http://hipporiot.tumblr.com/post/63297055350/i-wish-i-was-the-moon-1-of-2).

It’s been a few months since the sky all around the world lit up with falling angels, failing faith, burning grace. Right now though, a man is walking down a forested back road somewhere near a great, old lake. The night is cool raising goose bumps on his skin, the moonlight sends shadows out from every follicle of hair. This man is wearing a shrunken, ripped suit and loose tie, messy stubble, matted hair, black muddied dress shoes, and a shredded trench coat.The moon acts as a halo behind his head in the clear sky above, floating like the ghost of all he’s lost. A lone car passes by in the night. The man starts, thinking he recognizes the car, but he’s wrong.

This man, with a name that hasn't been spoken for a few months, is walking somewhere, but should he really do it? Should he really lay waste to a good assumption, rear his ugly, shameful head and ruin the easy, logical answer, that yes, no one could survive that fall. He would have been gone for good anyway, why change that now? A streetlight flickers over his head, he hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking, hadn’t remembered to keep walking, he was forgetting a lot these days. The man manages to tear his tired eyes from the grass-choked gravel beneath his shoes to see a store gas station ahead, and a phone booth.

Before he can even consciously decide, he’s walking to the weak fluorescence of the phone booth. _Crunch_ , lift, forward, _crunch_ , lift, forward… He fumbles with the door for a few seconds, his hands shaking for a reason that he’s sure he would be able to pinpoint if he’d eaten or slept today, or yesterday.

He’s inside the booth now, sand crunches beneath his shoes and his hands are on the sticky plastic of the telephone. His hand holding the phone shakes, but he just can’t.

He’s on the floor of the booth now, hot salty tears are pouring out of his sore eyes, clinging to his eyelashes. His stomach is shaking as he sobs into his hands. He just can’t. He can’t call them, he can’t ask of them, again. After all the hell he’s put them through. All the mistakes he’s made, He just can’t. He can’t call to tell them he’s alive, he’s human, he’s useless. Can’t ask them to come and get him and bring him home. Can’t ask them to be his brothers again, can’t ask for forgiveness, can’t ask for love. He can’t ask _him_. Not again.

His hands are shaking and wet as he wipes his face and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, his right hand going to the sandy floor, but instead of finding sand, he finds something cold, metallic. A coin. A small pile of them lay in the sandy corner of the booth. Years of looking for signs from his father, for some divine meaning, some path to follow, to find, he knows this is probably just loose change, maybe left by the store owner in an act of kindness. But he wants it to be a sign, even if it seems absurd.

He’s on his feet again, leaning against the cool glass as he picks up the receiver and punches in the numbers - numbers he remembers clearer than most things these days - and puts the coin in, waiting for the other end to pick up. Hoping to hear the voice on the other end, hoping for love and forgiveness, home and family, for him.

“Hello?”

“Dean, It’s me.”


	2. Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5K4PGpXsOAI), and [this.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6KDfhY3zMw)
> 
> Written after finale of season 8.  
> Beta'd by [Beckleys.](http://www.beckleys.tumblr.com)  
> Original text from my blog [here](http://hipporiot.tumblr.com/post/63297178891/come-home-2-of-2).

It’s been a few months since the sky all around the world lit up with falling angels, failing faith, burning grace. Right now though, headlights flash in and out of the car, drawing back memories of nights just like these, cool, crisp, quiet, but the empty passenger seat beside him breaks the illusion of comfort.

The man driving the car shifts in his seat trying to forget something painful that’s just crossed his mind, though it’s been crossing his mind a lot these days.

The man pulls his phone from his pocket and throws it onto the empty passenger seat, tired of the disappointment every time he thinks he feels his phone vibrating, thinking it might be someone who would sit in the seat next to him, the one who would make him laugh deep and long. The one who made sleep safe, long, peaceful, full of dreams of lakes his father never taught him how to fish in. Not nightmares of bloodied hands in eternally dark caves, echoed screams, guilt and pain .

The man shakes his head and tries to focus on the black road, the mist swirling in the headlights, thrumming engine, vibrating phone- vibrating phone! The man grabs the phone off the passenger seat and opens it with a flick of his wrist. No call. The man sucks in his breath, drops the phone back onto the passenger seat and grips the wheel tighter.

He turns the radio on, trying to stop thinking, stop thinking about  _him_. Static is all he can find for a few channels until Patsy Cline sings on a crackling radio wave,  _I can see an angel smiling, by his side I’ll never be, in my heart I’ll go on crying, only tears are left for me_ -. He slams his hand on the radio dial, turning the radio off.

Silence, black road, discarded cellphone, curling mist in off-white headlights, whitening knuckles on the steering wheel, empty passenger seat. He’s so tired…

Then there’s sound from the backseat – almost familiar – the rustling of fabric and flight-feathers. He jerks his head backwards to look into the backseat, his eyes expecting to see dark hair, trench coat, focused blue eyes. But all he sees are the bags of groceries pilled haphazardly, brushing up against each other.

The man takes a turn and pulls into his driveway, headlights now making long shadows on the concrete wall in front of him. He turns off the car and unbuckles, but he doesn’t get out. The man picks up his phone, hoping that it will buzz in his hand, and a familiar rough voice would be on the other end. So he wouldn’t have to go inside and to bed, worrying himself asleep with thoughts of his brother in his sickbed, and the boy asleep with deep bags beneath his eyes, and a man who could be dead.

_Buzz-buzz_.

The man looks down, his hand trembles with the cellphone’s vibrations, but his whole body is shaking for a different reason than an incoming call. He’s paralyzed, looking down at the unknown caller ID in its taunting white block letters. It could be a wrong caller, it could be another hunter, it could be anyone in the whole world. But what if it was  _him_.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone begins its third and final shake; he’s going to miss the call. He flips the cellphone open hard enough to break the screen and mashes the green talk button with enough force to wreck it and lets out his breath in a gust of expectancy that sounds like a sob as he lifts the phone to his ear with enough hope and fear to drive him mad but he does it all the same. So he holds his breath and says, not caring how his voice breaks-

“Hello?”

“Dean, it’s me.”


End file.
